


Everything you left behind

by strikedawn



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, based on the movie A Good Year by Ridley Scott, watch them rebuild a house as they build their loooooove
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21906388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikedawn/pseuds/strikedawn
Summary: After his uncle's death, Mikleo is forced to run away from his office for the weekend and tend to Camlann, Michael's old manor and his own childhood home. The house has seen better times-- Mikleo definitely won't be able to sell it like this.(Does he even want to?)But his uncle's metaphorical ghost isn't the only thing within those walls. There is Lailah and Zaveid, who have made of Camlann their house as much as Michael did. There is Sorey, with his lovely smile, his pure intentions, and his love for the decrepit house. They are everywhere in the house, making it theirs, making Mikleo feel... things.Mikleo definitely won't be able to sell the house like this.(But then again--does he even want to?)
Relationships: Mikleo/Sorey (Tales of Zestiria)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 32
Collections: Sormik Big Bang 2019





	Everything you left behind

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is my contribution to the sormik BB but it also comes with an issued apology because... it should have been finished by now. And it's... not. Part 2 will come at some point. But for now, please enjoy my lovely partner [Retto's](https://twitter.com/NotRetto) art!! Retto was (is) the only reason why this fic even exists, tbh. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR LOVE AND SUPPORT RETTO, I COULDN'T HAVE ASKED FOR A BETTER PARTNER<3
> 
> All artwork here belongs to them, of course -- please make sure to RT it when you visit their twitter!!  
> that said, please enjoy part 1!

The envelope is crispier than the rest of his mail, rougher to the touch.

Outside, the dark skies of Pendrago rumble as Mikleo centers his attention on that particular envelope. The rest fall from his hands onto the coffee table, but to this Mikleo holds on tightly. He knows, even before turning it in his hand to read the name of the fancy notary’s office, that nothing good can come out of such expensive paper.

His hands shake as he tears the envelope open, well-cared nails catching onto the adhesive.

_‘Mr. Rulay,’_ the letter reads, _‘we regret to inform you of the passing of your uncle —‘_

Mikleo feels like he shouldn’t be surprised by this, but he is. Michael wasn’t that old, always barely a decade and a half older than Mikleo. But then again, Michael _was_ the only family Mikleo had left. There is no one else left for whom a notary’s office would send him a letter, not after his mother’s own passing.

He tries to keep reading the letter, but the words dance over the pristine white paper, almost mocking him. It’s not because of tears; Mikleo’s eyes are drier than the fake plants he keeps around his apartment.

But maybe it has something to do with the heavy feeling that weights down on his chest, making it hard to breathe.

The fingers of his left hand leave indentations on the paper as Mikleo tries to control his shaking.

“Here,” a voice says by Mikleo’s right, and he turns his head to see Edna looking up at him expectantly. “I’ll read it.”

In other circumstances, Mikleo would have refused. But today, he surprises them both by letting the letter fall into Edna’s outstretched hand and walking back to his office chair. Mikleo falls into the cushions without any grace, elbow on the armrest so he can hide his prickling eyes in his palm.

“He never made a will,” Edna explains. The creaking of the paper is loud in the silence of Mikleo’s office. Louder than the thunder outside. “They say that since you’re his only next of kin, everything goes to you. Possessions, money—“

“—I don’t want any of it—“

“—The house.”

At that, Mikleo freezes. He tries not to, but it’s difficult to stop his brain from unearthing the memories of that place, of uncle Michael’s house back in Ladylake. Always bathed by sunlight and the sea breeze, Camlann Manor used to be heaven for Mikleo when he was a child. He can still remember it all, clear as day: the soft grass under his soles, the cold punch of the pool water against his heated skin, the cicadas singing at sunset and the stars that painted the sky at midnight. He remembers walking down the vineyards during the reaping, the sound of hundreds of people laughing and joking as they worked.

But, most of all, he remembers his uncle there, the center of it all, the most important piece of the chess board.

There was never Camlann Manor without Michael.

And now, there will never be.

“…I don’t want it, either,” Mikleo says after a loaded pause. He still hasn’t surfaced from his hiding spot in his palm.

“That’s why they’re writing to you. Whether you want your uncle’s things or not, making the first move is on you. They have the keys ready, and the papers. You just have to go to Ladylake and sign them.”

A cold sweat runs down Mikleo’s spine just as the first raindrops hit the massive windowpanes at his back. Suddenly, Mikleo’s office looks darker despite the very bright lights hanging overhead. “I can’t go to Ladylake! We’re on the lookout for the selling of Sylphystia _and_ you know Crowe has been keeping an eye on it as well. I-I can’t afford to leave, _we_ can’t afford me leaving!”

Edna stays silent for so long that Mikleo has no choice but to look up, if only to make sure his assistant is still in the room with him. Surprisingly, she is; she’s looking down at the letter as she plays with the little mascot that always hangs from her hip. She’s the picture of nonchalance, there reclined on Mikleo’s sofa; but when she looks up her eyes are hard like sapphires, and Mikleo can’t hold her stare for long. He goes back to his hiding place, like a coward.

If it wasn’t for the vice seizing his heart right now, Mikleo would slap himself for acting like that.

“You never told me you had an uncle,” Edna ends up saying, voice flat.

Mikleo can still feel her hard eyes on him. “I don’t talk about him much.”

“Bad memories?”

“…No.” And that’s the thing, isn’t it? There was never a bad memory about Camlann, not a single one. Camlann is bright and warm in Mikleo’s memory, like his uncle’s voice always was during story time. “No bad memories.”

With a sigh, Edna moves to her feet. Mikleo can hear her flats walking over the linoleum of the office, a gentle tap tap tap that is soundless most days. Today, however, it echoes inside Mikleo’s brewing headache, adding to the concoction of pain and confusion.

He wishes he hadn’t opened the letter. That he had tossed it aside like he does with all the mail that isn’t work-related, left to be destroyed by a secretary of a secretary come morning tomorrow. If he didn’t know, he could still pretend Michael was back at Camlann, happy among his books and the dust, telling stories to the ghosts of the past until his voice went raw and he laughed at the sound.

Instead, now Michael is dead.

And Mikleo can’t pretend Camlann is a place of his past, anymore.

“…I’ll send the boss an email saying you’re taking a few days,” says Edna resolutely, not walking towards Mikleo but towards the door. The letter is still in her small hands. “And I’ll book you a flight out to Ladylake for tomorrow.”

Another impossibly cold bead of sweat. “I—Did you not hear what I said? We can’t let Velvet get Sylphystia! We will be losing _millions_ of gald if we miss this deal. You know I can’t leave, Edna.”

One hand on the doorknob, Edna stills. She’s petite, but in Mikleo’s mind she belongs here. In this jungle of glass and paper that is Mikleo’s office. She’s the only person in Mikleo’s life that doesn’t have a connection with Camlann, in some way or another.

Not that there is anyone left of that time in Mikleo’s life. They’re all memories now, people with blurred faces that Mikleo can’t remember clearly, no matter how hard he tries. Time does that to you. Time and stress.

“I’ve known you for five years, Meebo,” Edna finally replies, and her voice sounds so stern that Mikleo forgets to chastise her for the nickname. “I’ve seen you at your highest, and at your lowest. But I’ve never seen you like this.”

She leaves before Mikleo can think of an answer to that. For a moment, the sounds of excited shouting at the other side flood Mikleo’s office as Edna slips through the open door. But then it clicks shut, and silence falls on Mikleo like a heavy stone, making it even harder to breathe.

He knows what Edna means. He’s not crying but his eyes burn, his throat feels parched, and his hands are still shaking.

Uncle Michael is dead.

Mikleo can’t remember the cadence of his voice anymore.

But instead of dwelling on it, Mikleo opens his calendar on his computer and swallows hard.

If Edna is so set on flying him out to Ladylake, he’ll have to reschedule his meetings.

* * *

It’s… older, for one.

Mikleo’s memories of Camlann Manor have deceived him for years. He never thought back to his uncle’s home much, but his mind had kept Camlann suspended in time, unchanging despite the summer storms and the natural decay of everything human-made. As he stands there at the entrance, carry-on firmly grasped in his hand while the taxi that brought him here speeds away, Mikleo can’t help but notice the chipped paint of the facade, the places where the brick work underneath shines red against the sun. He sees the steps, so high in his memories, now reduced to two intact ones and another three sporting a dangerous looking hole right in the middle of it. The door, blue like the sky, is now closer to the gray skies of Pendrago in color.

It is also open wide.

He could go in (with or without the keys in his pocket, it seems), but Mikleo doesn’t dare to. Not yet. He’s barely arrived at Camlann, and already the memories are threatening to swallow him up.

This is the home of his childhood. The place where he grew up, but not the place where he became the man he is today.

Maybe Camlann really was frozen in time, in more ways than one.

The shrill music of a phone makes Mikleo jump. It’s the villain’s music from a hit movie, one that Mikleo didn’t particularly enjoy but watched anyway, because everyone and their mother talked about it for a while. It was as stupid as he had imagined it would be, but the music had been good. Really good.

And hey, personalized ringtones are nothing but beneficial, these days.

“Hello, Edna,” Mikleo says into the receiver, responding without even looking at the screen of his phone.

At the other end of the line, Edna puffs. “Oh, look. You didn’t die at the airport.”

“I’m not a child, I can navigate an airport just fine!”

“Sure you can, Meebo. How’s the house?”

With a sigh, Mikleo sits down on top of his own carry-on, looking up at the old manor. The paint, the bricks, the broken windowpanes—they all seem to watch him back. “Not quite like I remembered it.”

“Well, what did you expect? It’s been a while since you’ve been there, hasn’t it?”

It has. It’s only been five years since he last spoke to uncle Michael, but he hasn’t set foot in Camlann since he was thirteen or fourteen. A lot can change in a decade, it seems. “Right. But it’s weird. I feel like I could navigate through it with my eyes closed.”

“Oh, _please_ do that. And film yourself. I need some footage of you trying to make out with a drywall.”

“Hey!”

“By the way, Heldalf is not happy,” Edna suddenly says, and Mikleo’s spine goes rigid. “He wants to know who gave you permission to go on vacation when the Sylphystia deal is still in the air.”

“I—I’m not—!”

“I told him about your uncle and he _huffed_ ,” Mikleo can picture the shake of Edna’s blond hair that came with her tone. “I swear he’s more like a cat every single day.”

Mikleo shakes his head along with her, groaning into his free palm. “So what should I do? Call the taxi back?” He springs to his feet, pacing in front of Camlann’s steps like a caged animal, carry-on forgotten for the moment. “I told you I shouldn’t have left, the deal is too important, and Velvet—“

“Hush, Meebo! Lady Edna has it under control. I’m only telling you so you can block Heldalf’s number for the next three days and pretend like changing countries must have messed up with your phone, somehow.”

“But…”

“Take care of your personal business, Mikleo,” Edna says, and for the first time since Mikleo met her, she sounds almost… kind. “And remember I’ll be adding some vacation days to my calendar as a compensation for my hard work while you’re gone revisiting your childhood.”

Mikleo rolls his eyes. It’s funny, how talking to Edna soothes and irks him at the same time. “You know I have no control over your vacation days, Edna.”

“And that is why you’re the worst manservant in history. Alright, I have to go back to pretend I’m working for you. Good luck.”

“Thanks Edna. I’ll talk to you soon.”

There’s no more goodbyes before Mikleo is alone again, facing the open door to Camlann as the breeze rustles the leaves of the trees and, somewhere, a wind bell chiming softly.

It’s as much of a welcome as Mikleo could get.

The inside of the house isn’t much better than the outside. Uncle Michael was never the most organized, but as Mikleo takes in the state of the base floor (which holds the kitchen, a large living room, two bathrooms and one of the guest rooms), he realizes that, at some point during the last ten years, Camlann fell down to chaos. There are papers everywhere, almost making it hard to walk the hallways. Mikleo doesn’t stop to really look at them, but he can distinguish important papers among newspaper spreads and publicity flyers.

Then there’s the dust. Uncle Michael might have been gone for barely a month, but the layers of dust sitting on every piece of furniture have to be older than that. As Mikleo moves deeper into the house, he can feel that same dust rising up from its slumber and finding its way down Mikleo’s windpipe; it’s hard to breathe in, even if not for the reasons Mikleo had imagined. Back in Pendrago, as Mikleo read the notary’s letter and thought back to the Camlann in his memories, Mikleo thought going back to that house would be almost too much to handle.

But— it’s not so bad. The place barely looks the same anymore.

That probably will make it easier for Mikleo to sell it.

He has nothing to do with a place like this, after all. He can’t even use it as a vacation house; Mikleo hasn’t had more than three days off-work since he first started working with Heldalf. He doesn’t mind, though; his life is his work, and his work is his life.

But that still means he has no use for Camlann anymore.

He hopes someone else will make happy memories in this place.

As he walks around the house, Mikleo makes sure to open the windows. There is a lot of work to be done in the house, if he really wants to sell it. A deep cleaning and a new layer of paint, at the very least. Some new furniture, to replace the wooden ones munched away by termite.

A specialist, to know for sure if said termite is now living in the foundations of the house.

A lot of work to do, indeed.

Despite it all, there are two places Mikleo doesn’t dare to set foot into, not yet. He tells himself it’s practicality; he’s only doing a quick check now anyway, before he goes back to Ladylake to his hotel room (where he should have gone upon arriving, but Mikleo had surprised himself by blurting Camlann’s address to the taxi diver the moment he had sat down in seat). So he goes back to the main entrance, avoiding completely his childhood room (set in the attic, a whole floor for himself), and the library (set underground, where the heat of the sun never reached).

The moment he’s outside, Mikleo freezes.

He’s sure he didn’t imagine the shadow flying past and towards the pool, hidden beyond the trees.

Mikleo hesitates. It’s not like shadows are inherently dangerous. Besides, the shadow wasn’t big enough (or slow enough) to be a person, so he should still check it out. This is private property, after all.

But it’s the shadow _not_ being a person what bothers Mikleo the most.

Still, he leaves his carry-on by the entrance and moves beyond the line of the trees to follow after the shadow, sun shining strong at the back of his neck. The trees offer a soothing reprieve as soon as he’s on the path towards the pool, though; the leaves reach out to brush against his cheeks, clearly not taken care of by a gardener in a while. He pushes past them, moving them aside with a hand before reaching the other end of the path.

For a moment, Mikleo sees it, the pool of his memories. He sees the sun blinking against the crystalline waters, the sandals and the towels scattered around the edge, the wet footprints left on the terra-cotta tiles. It’s an idyllic image, one that always came accompanied with the soft music of Michael’s old radio and the sloshing of water as Mikleo pulled himself out of the pool.

 _“Uncle Michael!”_ Mikleo had shouted thousands of times, climbing onto the springboard even when he was so small that it could have been considered dangerous. “ _I’m going to jump!”_

On his deckchair, uncle Michael would always leave the book aside to grant Mikleo his undivided attention. He used to stay in the shade, never one to get wet even on the harshest summer months, but he would always indulge Mikleo, who basked in the water like a fish in the ocean. _“I’m watching, I’m watching!”_

In the present, Mikleo freezes by the springboard, where his feet seem to have carried him without him noticing. Back in Pendrago, Mikleo had thought he had forgotten the sound of his uncle’s voice, the faint traces of amusement that always clung to each and every one of his words. But here, in the core of Camlann’s grounds, his voice echoes so easily that Mikleo can almost believe he will see Michael laying down in the decrepit chair behind him, sunglasses pushed up and keeping his auburn hair away from his face.

But as the memory starts to fade and reality settles in, Mikleo knows there is no place for those memories in the present time anymore. Michael’s favorite chair has a whole in the middle, there were the plastic has rotten. The pool doesn’t have crystalline waters anymore but a thick layer of mud and leaves right at the bottom, one that produces a scent so strong that it makes Mikleo’s eyes water. There are discarded glass bottles leaning precariously over the edge — wine bottles faded with time and sunlight.

And when he moves to stand on it, the springboard groans under Mikleo’s feet, like a beast waking up from a deep slumber. The board bobs, and Mikleo with it.

It isn’t the safest of perch, but Mikleo stands on it for a moment longer.

From there, he can see all of the pool, the past and the present.

From there, Mikleo can see everything that would never be his again.

But before the feelings can have a chance to rise up and choke him, the shadow reappears. It’s nothing but a red blur somewhere beyond the trees, but it seems to be circling around the pool, keeping itself hidden among the tree leaves but never getting so far away that Mikleo loses track of it. The shadow sounds heavy — the fallen leaves and debris rattle under its movements.

“Who’s there?” Mikleo asks as he gets off the springboard. It groans again, as if in goodbye, but Mikleo pays it no mind.

The shadow has stopped, and if Mikleo isn’t mistaken—there is a pair of yellow eyes looking straight at him from the darkness of the trees.

“Uh…”

Slowly, so slowly that it does nothing but aggravate Mikleo’s nerves, the shadow moves into the sunlight. It does so with another rustle of leaves; its massive body upsets the trees that cling to it, tiny branches sticking to its fur.

Mikleo can only register the words _big_ and _dog_ before his fight or flight instinct kicks in.

A second later, he’s running for his dear life.

“Help!” He screams, feet carrying him god knows where as he tries to put distance between himself and the dog—a dog that is definitely chasing him, strong paws faster than Mikleo could ever pray to be, and oh god it’s barking at him, _why is it barking—_ “ _Help!”_

No one replies. Camlann is as calm as ever beneath the frantic beat of Mikleo’s heart, beneath the sound of his harsh breath and the flow of blood in his ears. He can almost feel the dog’s breath ghosting the back of his neck, warm and wet like that of a beast—

The dog jumps on Mikleo’s back, and the surprise is enough to send them both to the ground. Harsh rocks meet them as they drag over the floor, but Mikleo doesn’t feel the pain. Instead, he feels raw fear as the dog pins him to the rocks with its massive body, red fur shaking as the dog pants through its mouth, which is open to show rows of very pointy teeth and—

Lick Mikleo’s entire face?

“Silva!” Someone shouts, sounding too far away in Mikleo’s terrified ears, and the dog freezes over Mikleo. Its large tongue is still dripping onto Mikleo’s cheek when the shout resounds again, closer than before, maybe, but also more frantic. “Silva, here!”

The dog moves away, whining softly as it gets off Mikleo and trots in the direction of the voice. Mikleo lays there, trying to regain his breath as he starts to feel the heat of the rocks beneath him and the burn there where they have scrapped the tender skin of his arm. He wants to get up, but he doesn’t trust his shaky knees, his hollowed out stomach, to support him.

Since when did Uncle Michael have a dog!? He knew how much Mikleo feared them, he would never—

But that specific train of thought comes at an abrupt halt. Uncle Michael had every right to get a dog if he so wished to. Mikleo hadn’t set a foot in Camlann in a decade. They hadn’t talked in five years.

Michael could very well get a dog if he wanted.

“Oh, god, please tell me he didn’t kill you,” the same voice as before said, before Mikleo saw the sun blocked by a big head full of hair. A human hair, thankfully. He squinted his eyes at the upside down face, unable to make out any of its features. “He’s harmless, I swear, but he’s a bit too excitable since he’s still a— Wait a second. _Mikky_?”

Mikleo freezes. Despite the fact that Edna is always adamant on inventing new nicknames for Mikleo, there is no one on this earth that called Mikleo ‘ _Mikky’_.

No one, except—

“…Zaveid?”

The big head moves closer then, filling Mikleo’s field of vision. And despite the weird angle and the long curtain of hair that falls around them, there is no mistaken it— this _is_ Zaveid, Michael’s oldest friend, almost another uncle to the child that Mikleo once was, and the vine-grower of Camlann’s vineyards.

“It _is_ you, Mikky!!”

The ground underneath Mikleo disappears in exchange of a pair of strong arms that lift Mikleo up, and up, and up, until he’s pressed against a firm chest and hovering a good head over Zaveid’s own head. It’s strange and familiar at the same time; there was a moment in Mikleo’s life when he was used to Zaveid’s peculiar hugs, all crushing strength and no care for the other’s ability to breathe. And a part of Mikleo still remembers—he sags against him, unable to return the hug because Zaveid has Mikleo’s arms pinned against his sides.

But another part of Mikleo can’t help but wiggle uncomfortably in Zaveid’s hold. It’s been far too long since someone touched him like this. Like they missed him.

“Oops, sorry, Mikky,” Zaveid says a moment later, letting Mikleo fall back on the soles of his feet. His smile, Mikleo is amused to realize, is the same as it was before; it might be surrounded by new expression lines that definitely weren’t there ten years ago, and by a mane of hair so luscious and so straight that Mikleo almost wants to touch it — but its intensity is still the same, and Mikleo finds himself returning the smile almost immediately.

“No harm done,” Mikleo promises, even as he rubs his scrapped arm tenderly. The touch makes him wince. “It’s good to see you, Zaveid.”

Zaveid laughs. The sound booms over the tranquility of Camlann, making more memories arise in Mikleo’s mind. Zaveid, young enough to be mistaken for Mikleo’s older brother, carrying him around on his shoulders as he filled Mikleo’s mind with data about vineyards and the reaping of the grape. Zaveid, controlling the barbecue on a Sunday morning as Mikleo pulled Michael into the shade so they could continue reading the latest volume of the Celestial Record.

Zaveid, a permanent fixture at Camlann, just like Michael had been.

“It’s good to see you too, Mikky! Man, how long has it been? Five, six years?”

When Mikleo winces this time, it has nothing to do with the pain on his arm. “Ten is more like it.”

“No wonder I didn’t recognize you, at first! You’ve changed… even though you still have that baby face on you!”

“Hey!”

As if it is as bothered by the comment as Mikleo the dog barks, jumping on the spot to get their attention. Mikleo recoils at the sound and at its quick movement, and while he tries to be subtle about it, Zaveid notices in a second.

“Oh, don’t worry about him, Silva is just a puppy! We’re trying to train him to be a guard dog but he’s too sociable still, I think.”

“That,” Mikleo manages to say after swallowing dry, watching the dog have no trouble to press its head against Zaveid’s hip. “is not a puppy.”

Zaveid laughs again, unbothered as he ruffles Silva’s red fur. “He’s an Akita, so he’s already big even though he’s young!”

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t look like a beast…” Mikleo muttered, but not low enough for Zaveid not to hear. Zaveid raises his head to look at Mikleo with narrowed, if albeit still amused eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re still afraid of dogs, Mikster—“

“I’m not _afraid—_ “ Mikleo shakes his head, even as a warm feeling spreads from his core to the tips of his fingers. He is surprised to realize Zaveid still remember such a small fact about him, after so long. “—I just don’t like dogs that much.”

“Well, Silva here will make you change your mind! Even your uncle liked him, in the end.”

The mention of uncle Michael feels like a bucket of ice cold water over Mikleo’s head, dampening the happiness of his reunion with Zaveid. Even Zaveid seems to feel the weight of Michael’s loss; his lively eyes suddenly go dark under the light of the sun, the corners of his mouth dropping enough for his smile to banish.

“Zaveid,” Mikleo starts softly, forcing himself to look Zaveid in the eye. “What… what happened?”

“…It happened fast. One day I was kicking him out of that library of his after yet another all-nighter, and the next he could barely walk out of bed. It made him feel tired all the time, and it gnawed at his memory.” Zaveid shrugs, but there is not a trace of nonchalance in the movement. “It was what hurt him the most. Forgetting what he had spent a lifetime learning.”

Mikleo feels heat pickle at the back of his eyes. He pretends it’s the glare of the sun and looks away, letting his fringe fall over his eyes like a curtain. “I—“

A heavy hand falls on his shoulder and Mikleo jumps, startled. But it’s only Zaveid, gripping him tight enough to hurt but also grounding him, keeping Mikleo close.

The heat of the hand keeps some of the cold Mikleo was starting to feel on his limbs melt away.

“Don’t. He was well taken care of, right to the end. We moved him in with us when we realized there was nothing much we could do help.”

 _That explains the state of the house,_ Mikleo thinks. If Michael had been living with Zaveid for a while—if everything had happened so fast that no one had even thought about tidying up the place before closing it down, Mikleo could understand the dust and the papers scattered on the inside.

“Thank you, Zaveid,” Mikleo says, hoping the meaning reaches Zaveid. But then he frowns, realizing something he should have done before. “Wait, when you said we… do you mean Lailah is still—?”

“Of course she’s still here, Mikster, who do you take me for!” Zaveid replies, suddenly sounding more animated. His hand goes back to petting Silva’s big head. “You think I’d let a woman like her escape!?”

Mikleo rolls his eyes. “Last time I saw her she could handle you no problem.”

“And she still does, my boy, that’s why I love her so much.”

A bubble of laughter threatens to make its way out of Mikleo’s mouth, but Mikleo pushes it down. It doesn’t feel like the time to laugh yet.

At their feet, the Akita whines. It seems to have gotten bored of the humans’ talk, for he’s sitting down on Zaveid’s left foot, looking up imploringly with very dark eyes. Mikleo feels unease roll inside of him; he’s only better when he can forget the dog is still there.

“Oh right, it’s lunch time,” Zaveid says, not to Mikleo but to the dog, scratching apologetically behind its perky ears. “What do you say, Mikster? I’m sure you miss my barbecue skills after so long! Wanna join us?”

The offer is tempting. The offer is so tempting, Mikleo has a _yes_ already at the tip of his tongue, begging to be let out. But Mikleo has a lot to do in the remaining two days; it’s not the time to spend having lunch with old friends.

Still, the need is strong enough to make his chest feel tight. It’s been so long he’s since Zaveid and Lailah…

“Come on, my boy,” Zaveid says as if reading his thoughts, throwing one of his muscled arms around Mikleo’s shoulders and pressing him against his side. “I’m guessing we’ll have to talk at some point, and it’s not a good idea to do it so close to the vines. The wind will carry our voices, and they’ll get sad. It would be no good to have a bad vintage right now.”

Mikleo sighs, smiling softly. Zaveid and his vines; how long had it been since he had last thought about them?

“Okay,” Mikleo finds himself saying, and Zaveid laughs warmly as he starts pushing Mikleo back towards the house.

* * *

Uncle Michael used to say Lailah was the Lady of Camlann.

Mikleo always thought of her as some kind of princess, as a child. He loved seeing her dance around Camlann with her flow-y skirts and her long hair trailing after her. She was always a source of kindness and sweetness, but had no trouble forcing Mikleo and Michael out of the library when they threatened to set aside their lunches in favor of just one more book. Mikleo would never admit it now, but she used to cling to her skirt sometimes, helping her as she baked and then eating most of her cookies himself. And she would laugh her wind chime laughter as she played with his hair, looking down at him like Mikleo used to think a mom should look at her children.

Now, Mikleo is baffled to realize none of these things have changed at all.

“Look at you,” Lailah whispers after a couple of heartfelt hugs, pushing Mikleo’s hair back with soft fingers to really look at him in the eyes. She’s still taller than him, if only by a little. That’s a fact Mikleo won’t allow himself to dwell on. “You look so much like your mother, Mikleo…”

The warm feeling that Mikleo had felt the moment he had seen Zaveid after so many years spreads, filling him completely. “Thank you, Lailah.”

“And you look so much… so much like—“ at that, Lailah chokes up a little, her big eyes clouding with tears. She sends an apologetic smile to Mikleo before she turns, discreetly rubbing the corner of her eyes with the sleeve of her dress.

Not for the first time, Mikleo feels the need to apologize. “Lailah…”

“Oh, my! Here I go, getting emotional again. Don’t mind me, don’t mind me! Let’s get you all settled instead.”

Her hands are as soft as ever, but the tug at Mikleo’s long sleeve is insistent, and leaves no room for complaints. Mikleo follows Lailah inside with not so much as a sigh, feeling his mouth curl up into another smile.

His cheeks are starting to hurt.

The guest house hidden in the depths of Camlann’s grounds looks far more lived in than Camlann itself. After all, it was never a simple guest house, but the home to Lailah and Zaveid, the housekeeper and winegrower respectively. They had always been fixed figures in Mikleo’s memories of Camlann, just like uncle Michael.

It’s nice to know they’re still here, unbothered by time, even when Michael isn’t.

The fact provokes a strange mix of emotions in Mikleo that he has not the energy to interpret.

Grabbing the handhold of his carry-on, Lailah moves Mikleo further into the house. It’s a cozy, tiny little thing compared to the grandiosity of the manor, but it has its own charm. The walls are covered with Lailah’s many attempts at crochet, designs that vary from fiery flowers to what seems to be… armadillos? Mikleo isn’t very sure, but as he lets his eyes move from Lailah’s pieces to Zaveid’s botany books neatly arranged on the shelf in the living room, he can’t help but be grateful once again that nothing seems to have changed here. Sunlight streams through dainty curtains, bathing pink decorations and wood in a light color and at last, something tightly coiled around Mikleo loosens.

He hadn’t realized how much Camlann’s state had affected him until he was sitting on Lailah’s kitchen chair, looking at how little that other piece of his childhood had changed.

“Zaveid has been using the guest room as a gym, lately,” Lailah starts to say as she moves — as she _dances_ — around the kitchen, setting different plates with baked goods on the table, almost absentmindedly. Mikleo observes the feast as his mouth waters, but he doesn’t reach for any. “I don’t even know why, considering he’s out working most of the day… He doesn’t have the body of a twenty year old anymore, you know!”

Mikleo lets out a low chuckle. “You guys aren’t old at all, Lailah, don’t talk like that.”

“Oh, _I’m_ not! But I’ve had to put far too many heat patches on Zaveid’s lower back to think _he’s_ still young and thriving.”

“ _You wound me, Lailah dearest!”_

Lailah giggles at that, and Mikleo joins her a second later. Zaveid is somewhere outside, no doubt preparing for the evening rounds through the vineyards, but the house is open to the last window, and the soft wind that blows through makes sound travel easily. Zaveid can hear their conversation, but Mikleo can also hear him humming happily as he works.

“Anyway, as I was saying,” Lailah continues, setting out a teapot as she reaches out for her apron with her free hand. “Since the guest room is full with Zaveid’s toys, I hope you won’t mind staying in the couch for a bit? Camlann is… it has been far too silent since your uncle left us. I would hate for you to spend the night alone there.”

Lailah’s words put a knot on Mikleo’s throat, threatening to choke him. He grabs a cookie from the nearest batch, as if desperate to find something to distract himself, but instead of eating it he starts to pull out the chocolate chips, playing with the crumbs that start to litter the tablecloth.

“It—it’s alright, Lailah,” Mikleo says after a moment, not looking up from his cookie carnage. “I booked a room in a hotel in Ladylake.”

“You’re not staying with us…?” Lailah asks, and though Mikleo can’t see her, her disappointment is noticeable in her voice.

“I… I didn’t want to impose—“

“You could never impose, Mikleo!”

“Well… I still have to be around Ladylake a lot, for the signings,” it is a feeble excuse, and both of them know it. Mikleo could come and go as he pleased if he only rented out a car for the weekend. But still, Lailah doesn’t press, there is something tight behind the blue of his eyes, something Mikleo doesn’t dare look too much for too long.

“Well,” Lailah starts, the ghost of her usual smile gracing her lips. “This is your house as much as Camlann is, Mikleo. Don’t hesitate to come in while you’re here.”

Zaveid’s entrance kills anything Mikleo could have said to that. He’s smiling, rubbing off grease from his fingers with an equally sullied towel. What grease and vines have to do with each other, Mikleo has absolutely no idea, but he learned a long time ago not to question Zaveid’s methods where his plants were involved.

“Alright, who’s ready for meat!”

Lunch is prepared in record time. Mikleo is forced to sit while Zaveid and Lailah work, both of them an unlikely force of nature in the kitchen. They move with the easiness of experience, Lailah dancing out of the way every time Zaveid tries to check her with her hip, always smiling. They’re talking, sounds made to push away the sadness that still lurks in the dark corners of Camlann, but Mikleo is barely paying attention.

At 26, Mikleo still hasn’t known this, this—simplicity, brought by coexistence under the same roof. Not even back at the beginning, freshly out of university and living with a handful of roommates, did Mikleo ever get this level of complicity. He doesn’t miss it, per se; it’s hard to miss something that you’ve never known.

But watching them— watching Lailah make Zaveid taste test something from her spoon, and Zaveid grin at her from behind a pan when he irremediably makes a joke, something sharp twist inside Mikleo, right between his ribs.

Again, he doesn’t dwell on it much. Much less when Zaveid starts setting plates on the table, and suddenly Mikleo can’t concentrate on anything else but how hungry he is.

When did he last have something to eat, anyway—

“Alright,” Lailah declares once everything is set on the table, clapping softly. “Let’s eat!”

“Thank you for the food!” Both Zaveid and Mikleo exclaim.

The first bite is bliss. Mikleo can’t help making a soft sound, immediately putting more food into his mouth, and everything is so good that he almost doesn’t care about Zaveid very clearly laughing at him from in front of him. At his left, at the head of the table, Lailah at least has the decency of hiding her smile behind her napkin. Mikleo frowns, but it’s not enough to deter him from another mouthful of food.

At some point, Zaveid leaves to grab a bottle of wine. He presents it proudly, but Mikleo recoils at the sight of it. Zaveid might be proud of the vineyards, but the wine they produce isn’t even _acceptable_. During one of the last summers he had spent in Camlann, Mikleo’s curiosity had gotten the best of him, and he had downed a mouthful directly from the unattended bottle his uncle had left on the table.

Mikleo had gagged in disgust, and immediately rushed to brush his teeth.

Now, with a palate far more refined and more used to alcohol, Mikleo winces at the acrid taste that punches his taste buds, but at least he manages to hide his expression of disgust. From his seat, Zaveid smiles at him and pours him some more.

The cup stays on the table, untouched, but at least Zaveid doesn’t seem bothered by it.

The food, on the other hand, is too good to spend time talking. They exchange a few words, of course, mostly about the weather and how Mikleo’s flight to Ladylake went, but all conversations go back to the fact that there is joy in every one of Mikleo’s bites, much to Lailah and Zaveid’s delight

“Do they even feed you in Pendrago?” Zaveid asks at some point, when most of the food is already gone.

“They do, actually,” Mikleo replies back. “You should try the Drago stew. I’d even say it’s better than your steak.”

“Oi—!”

“But it’s not better than _my_ cooking,” Lailah interjects. Her food is barely touched; she seems content to listening to the noise going on around her. “Right, Mikleo?”

“Of course not,” Mikleo says, and immediately kicks Zaveid beneath the table when Zaveid mouths _‘softie’_ at him.

“Good! I wouldn’t want you missing Pendrago’s cooking once you move in here.”

It’s like a bucket of ice cold water over Mikleo. He freezes, another bite halfway to his mouth, as he registers Lailah’s words.

And his actions don’t go unnoticed. Zaveid stills as well, looking at Mikleo with piercing eyes as Lailah’s smile strains to stay on her lips.

“…What?” Mikleo asks, because the silence that has fallen suddenly between them is too harsh to keep his mouth shut. “What do you mean?”

“Well…” Lailah bites on her lower lip as Mikleo puts his chopsticks back on the table. “Someone has to take care of Camlann now that your uncle—now that he’s gone, right? Of course, that old house isn’t in good conditions right now, but with a little bit of love—“

“We’ll help,” Zaveid promises, but his eyes are still hard beneath his long lashes. “And I know a couple of guys back in Elysia who would help as well. Your uncle was always well loved around here.”

Mikleo knows that. He remembers visits upon visits of villagers while Mikleo spent his summers in Camlann, and all of them greeted his uncle as if they were brothers, distant siblings at worst. Even though he was eccentric and his only love was history, Michael had a way with people that made everyone fall a little bit in love with his weird quirks. It probably laid in the fact that he was always ready to open the doors of Camlann to whoever bothered to make the walk from the village.

So Mikleo doesn’t need the reminder. Much less when it feels like a jab directed at him.

“I—I don’t plan on moving back here,” Mikleo admits. And it hurts when he sees Lailah’s expression, but it hurts even more when Zaveid’s doesn’t even change.

“But—what about Camlann?” Lailah asks, leaning closer towards Mikleo. “It… It was your uncle’s dream.”

“Exactly,” the word falls heavy from Mikleo’s tongue and he knows, despite the fact that he’s steeling himself to confront this conversation, that the tone of his voice is the same he uses before a particularly obstinate client. “It was Michael’s dream. Not mine.”

“So what?” Zaveid chimes in. “You’re gonna leave it there to rot?”

And here it is, what Mikleo had been so scared of admitting since the first second he came back to Hyland. Because even though he knows it’s what he needs to do, knows it’s what his current lifestyle demands of him, Mikleo also knows—for Zaveid and Lailah, for the memory of his uncle, this is the worst thing he could do.

And a part of him knows as well: he doesn’t care enough to change his mind.

“I’m going to sell it.”

“ _What?!”_ Zaveid shouts, jumping to his feet so fast that his chair tumbles backwards, crashing against the kitchen floor.

Mikleo stays put, only rising his eyes to keep his gaze on Zaveid. “You heard me. I have no use for the house, so I’ll sell it. I’ve already spoken with the layers, and with a real estate agency.”

“And what about the vines?” Zaveid’s hands are on the table, knuckles white as he grips the edge of it. “What about this house? Are you going to sell us away as well?”

At that, Mikleo hesitates. But he would never lie to these people. “…The house and the vines are within Camlann’s land. So whoever buys the manor will acquire the rest of it too.”

Zaveid slams his hands on the table, and the whole thing shakes. A cup of red wine tumbles down and stains the tablecloth the color of dark blood, spreading until it’s dripping onto the floor by Mikleo’s left. From the corner of his eye, Mikleo sees Lailah flinch, but Mikleo doesn’t look away from Zaveid. “So that’s it?” Zaveid exclaims, leaning over the table to peer down at Mikleo. “You leave this place for _ten fucking years_ and now you think you have the right to take everything from us?”

“Zaveid…” Lailah starts, but Zaveid pays her no mind.

“I didn’t ask for the house,” Mikleo tries to reason. “I didn’t want it in the first place!”

“Nor you deserve it! You left your uncle here to die, and now you want to do the same with his house!”

“Zaveid, that’s enough!”

Lailah comes too late to stop the dagger from piercing through Mikleo’s heart. At least, that’s what the pain in his chest feels like. That is something that has been nagging at Mikleo since he received the letter in his office, but that he’s been too busy planning everything to really let it root in his brain.

But now Zaveid has thrown it at his face, and it hurts far more than he had expected.

“…My life is in Pendrago,” Mikleo says as he rises to his feet. And that helps with the pain, somewhat. It hurts now, but come Monday he’ll be back home, under the bright lights of his office, sitting on his worn out chair, and Mikleo will be so busy that he’ll have no time to think about the people in Camlann that hate him now. “My life, my home, my job— everything is there. I have no use for Camlann anymore.”

“…Spoken like a true white collar,” Zaveid spats. “If it’s not profitable in the long run, better get rid of it, huh?”

Zaveid is in the wrong there. Mikleo’s analytical eye knows that Camlann could be _very_ profitable, if only he had the time to care for it. The vineyards could be tested and fixed to produced drinkable wine. The house and the grounds would be perfect for whole families looking to enjoy the summer in the countryside, or warmer nights during the winter. With some paint and new furniture, Camlann could become the heaven on earth Mikleo known as a child.

But he refuses. Caring for Camlann like that would only mean Mikleo wouldn’t let the memory of his uncle rest at the back of his mind.

And he was tired of hurting.

He missed his office so bad…

“…Thank you for the food, Lailah,” Mikleo says, stepping away from the table and towards the door with slow steps. He feels awful for leaving that mess to her, but he’s tired, and his room in Ladylake sounds amazing right now, even if he has to make the commute on foot. “It was just like I remembered.”

“Mikleo…” Lailah whispers, but she does nothing to make him stay. She’s probably just as angry as Zaveid, if not more; she certainly has the right to be.

“So that’s it?” Zaveid asks just as Mikleo’s hand closes around the doorknob. “You’re kicking us out of our home for some gald and a clear conscience?”

Mikleo hesitates, just for a second. “If… If I can, I’ll convince the buyer to let you guys stay. But I can’t make any promises.”

Zaveid snorts, but there is no amusement in the sound. His eyes are glaring daggers at Mikleo, and for the first time, Mikleo realizes— Zaveid had been expecting this to happen since the very beginning.

The pain isn’t as bad as he had expected, but it still stings.

He leaves the small house in complete silence, closing the door softly behind him. But the breeze is still blowing, and the windows of the guest house are wide open. And like before, the wind carries with it words even if they are muttered with anger, meant to not be heard.

“I’m glad Michael doesn’t get to see what he’s become,” Zaveid spats, before there is the sound of a chair scrapping along the floor, and then more silence.

Mikleo doesn’t even try to go back to the manor again. He waits for the taxi just outside the grounds, his back to Camlann like it should have always been.

* * *

“Listen,” Rose says through the phone, and Mikleo can picture her sharp grin even without seeing her face. “If I can’t get you at least two million for that beauty, you can go right ahead and sue me.”

“Make it three million,” Mikleo replies around a piece of his toast. Beyond the hotel’s terrace, the sun shines softly over the still sleepy streets of Ladylake, but even that makes Mikleo’s eyes hurt. He didn’t sleep much the night before. “If I’m going to be forced to revisit my childhood, I might as well get something good out of it.”

“Yeah… about that,” Rose starts, her tone becoming a tad more serious. “How are you doing? Edna seemed a bit worried when we spoke—or as worried as Edna can be, I mean.”

Mikleo sighs, not really knowing what he say. How _is_ he doing? He’s back in his childhood summer town feeling like an alien, like the memories of Camlann aren’t his own, as he keeps expecting his uncle to come at him with a new book and a gentle smile.

He’s back and hurting the people he once cared very deeply about, only because he’s dying to go back home.

“I’m fine,” Mikleo settles on saying. Because he is. He will be fine once Camlann has been sold. “How long will it take you?”

Rose knows a plea for a change of conversation the moment she hears it, so the transition into her work voice is as smooth as ever when she says: “Well, the house is in shambles, Mik. And even if I put my best guys to work on it, considering the materials, the work, and the fact that we’ll need your approval for most of it…”

“So go crazy with it,” Mikleo says quickly. “Do whatever you want.”

“I—wait, you’re giving me free rein with it? I can do whatever to the house?”

“Sure,” Mikleo replies, but the next bite of toast feels stale in his dry mouth. It will be alright anyway, he trusts Rose. It’s not like she will transform his childhood home into a dance club or something. But still… “Though I’ll want to go with you over some details,” he adds, thinking of Camlann’s little guest house. “Not right now, though.”

“Sure thing, buddy!”

“And—“ Mikleo adds before he can think better. “I’ll go back today to see if there is anything I want to keep. Aside from that, the house is yours.”

Even through the phone, Rose’s voice sounds delighted. She finds joy in her job, in how good she is at it. Mikleo really couldn’t have trusted Camlann to anyone better. “Perfect! Now for my honoraries—I won't take anything below 45% of what I get you for the house.”

But Mikleo could surely have trusted it to someone far _cheaper_.

“You will get 15% and you will _thank_ me,” Mikleo retorts, a small smile coming to his lips as his mind plunges deep into his negotiation skills.

“ _15%?!_ Who do you think I am?!”

“I think you are a smart, opportunistic woman who will have no shame in sucking me dry even though my uncle just died.”

“A girl’s got to eat, sweet cheeks.”

“You get 20 if you promise to never call me that again.”

“25, or I’ll jump on the Edna bandwagon and start calling you ‘Meebo’ for now on.”

“Deal,” Mikleo replies immediately. Rose might be skilled, but so is Mikleo. Sometimes Mikleo wishes he could work more with her. She’s so easy to talk to, there are days when Mikleo toys with the idea of calling her a friend. But this is work; there are no friends in their field. “You know, you could have asked for 40 and I probably would have given in.”

“ _You?_ Give in? As if!” Her laughter is crystalline, and it makes Mikleo smile a bit as well. “Anyway, when are you coming back? I want that 25% signed before the end of the week, got it?”

Mikleo nods. By now the streets are far more livelier, cars and people rushing to get to work on time, but his corner of the terrace is still tranquil. “Tomorrow night, most likely. I want to be in the office by Monday morning.”

“Of course you do… Alright, I’ll come to the office around midday then. Save me the coffee break?”

“Deal,” Mikleo replies again, and his laughter sounds less strained now. “See you Monday, Rose.”

“Pleasure doing business with you, Mik!”

The line goes dead, but Mikleo doesn’t move save for leaving his phone on the table. He’s not looking forward to going back to Camlann. He has no doubt Zaveid will stick to the vineyards and the guest house, but that doesn’t mean Zaveid won’t know he’s there.

And Mikleo doesn’t think he can deal with that gaze again; a gaze that let him know Zaveid had been ready for Mikleo to let him now.

Closing his eyes, tilting his head back so the sunlight can reach him, Mikleo thinks of Uncle Michael.

And blames the prickling in his eyes to the warmth of the sun.

* * *

Camlann is surrounded by silence when Mikleo gets there, that very same day.

This time, Mikleo spends almost no time at the entrance. He only allows himself one whole second of regarding the façade, the washed away colors, the still open entrance door, before squaring his shoulders and walking in. Inside, the newspaper spreads and the dust welcome him, clinging to his shoes as he steps over them, settling on his hair as a gust of wind shows just how uncared of the house really is. But Mikleo pays nothing of this any mind, walking instead directly where the stairs show him two paths:

Upwards, to his old room.

Downwards, to Michael’s library.

With no moment of hesitation, Mikleo starts descending the stairs.

Surprisingly, the library is in far better condition than the rest of the house. The small office right at the bottom of the stairs seems clean, if albeit showing the same state of organized disorganization Mikleo remembers from his childhood. There is the desk covered by still open books, the bookmarks that seem to spring like mushrooms from every other available surface. A circular rug takes most of the space in the room, also littered with books, but with the addition of a few floor pillows; Mikleo used to lay in those, Michael at his side as they read in comfortable silence.

Further in, Mikleo snorts as he walks and sees his uncle’s cork board; like he remembers, it’s full of post-it notes with his uncle’s messy handwriting.

_ < Mayvin’s Annals, page 298, paragraph 4. Reference to Morgrim. > _

_< Artorius Throne. Possible replica? >_

_< Just what the hell is a Normin? >_

_< EAT. >_

Mikleo used to help Michael with those. His uncle would complain about not understanding his own handwriting, and Mikleo would gallantly offer to write them for them in that calligraphy of his that was still shaky around the edges from his young age. But, no matter how shaky it was, Michael would always sigh at it appreciatively because _‘thank god you’re here Mikleo, or I would end up trying to decipher my own notes for three days’._

The notes pile up on top of each other now, a sea of yellow post-it with the newest being the ones directly on top.

For a moment, Mikleo wonders if his own notes are buried underneath still, closer to the cork.

Michael always had the habit of piling things up, after all.

But instead of checking, Mikleo walks to the only other door in the room. It’s right behind the desk and wide open as Mikleo guessed it would be, so Michael could just jump from his chair and slide into the other room. He would swear, jump, and rush past the door all while giving Mikleo the scare of his life. Then Michael would return with at least three books in his arms, and flash an apologetic smile when he saw Mikleo’s glare.

Now, as if following the ghost of his own memories, Mikleo walks through the door by the desk and into Michael’s pride and joy, the soft smile in his lips dying as he receives the true punch of the past.

This. This is the heart of Camlann. The heart of Uncle Michael.

The library.

Full of shelves from floor to ceiling, like pulled out of a fantasy movie, the library sits on the biggest room in all of Camlann manor. Sunlight filters through low but large windows at the very top of the room, warming up the chilled room until the atmosphere turns cozy and warm. It’s a place where you could spend all day to hide from the heat of the sun, and sometimes even the night. The floors are carpeted with soft rugs. The shelves are surprisingly organized by era, by theme, by author. All the care Michael didn’t have for the rest of the house, he poured it in his library. Despite the amount of books scattered around the house, the library is still full to the brim; even from the door, Mikleo can spy ladders set against the shelves to reach the higher ones. Not even the sun can show any dust lingering in the air. Everything here is well cared of. Everything here is loved.

Mikleo feels his heart constrict as he gazes at the familiar tomes and he realizes—

Unlike the rest of the house, this place still looks _alive_.

He walks further in with shaky legs, left hand holding on tight to the front of his shirt as he moves. One could easily get lost in the library, but Mikleo’s mind still remembers the way easily. There was a time when he could find any book Michael asked him to fetch, and while he thinks he’s definitely lost that ability now, Mikleo at least can still find his way to the cushions nested against the corners, to the little bench that used to be Mikleo’s favorite reading spot. And all the while, Mikleo can’t find a book out of its place, a dot of dust flying in the air.

It feels like he will turn a corner and—

Someone’s there. Someone is in Michael’s library and Mikleo’s heart does a somersault in his chest as he sees them, balancing precariously on one of the ladders as they return books to their places on the shelves. For a moment —a painful moment — Mikleo thinks it’s Michael; the way this person holds the books against their chest is the same way Michael did. As if the books were something precious, something valuable.

But Michael never did wear sweatpants, or soft t-shirts. He definitely never wore _sandals_ while going up the ladders, nor funky-looking feather earrings hanging from his ears.

And he definitely, _definitely_ never did his organization work while listening to idol music and singing softly to it while _at the top of the ladder_.

“Hey!” Mikleo shouts as he walks down the hallway between two shelves and towards the stranger playing around with Michael’s books. “What are you doing, that’s dangerous!”

The stranger doesn’t seem to hear him, nor see him. But Mikleo can see them clearly now; they’re a young man from around Mikleo’s age, auburn hair messy and falling over green eyes that never once look away from his work on the shelves. His voice is soft as he mumbles the lyrics to the song he’s listening to.

But he keeps ignoring Mikleo.

And the way his foot is sliding out of his sandal as the guy leans forward is making chills run down Mikleo’s arms.

“Hey, come on! Get down!”

“ _These moments with you, these flavors coloring the world–_ “ the stranger sings, and Mikleo feels his patience wearing thin.

He reaches forward, grabbing a fistful of the stranger’s pant leg and tugging to get his attention. “Hey!!”

 _“Everything about today is but a fragment of l—_ AH _!”_

The stranger slips. Mikleo sees it happen in slow motion, sees him jump at Mikleo’s sudden touch and his foot slide out of the sandal and the step. And then he sees the whole ladder wobble as the stranger tries to hold his equilibrium— he falls, body tilting back towards the shelf right behind him as Mikleo gets a suddenly graphic vision of this stranger cracking his head open on the shelves of his late uncle’s library.

He acts on impulse. Mikleo steps forward and reaches his arms up, a late warning caught on the back of his throat as he prepares himself to catch the stranger. Just— Mikleo never was a sports person. The heaviest thing he’s ever lifted were Michael’s tomes, and the heavy stack of notes by the end of each university year.

Those have nothing on the heavy body of a falling stranger. And, unsurprisingly, both Mikleo and the stranger end up sprawled on the floor, pain shooting up from Mikleo’s back as he hits it, and then from his chest as the stranger falls on top of him ungracefully.

Mikleo’s vision goes black for a second as a loud sound accompanies their fall. When he returns to, the stranger is sitting on his chest, looking down at him with such an earnest look of worry that Mikleo can do nothing but gawk at him.

“I’m so sorry!” The stranger is saying, shouting almost. His right hand is checking Mikleo’s face and shoulders for injuries, but Mikleo can feel his right hand cupping the back of his head softly, keeping it away from the cold floor. “Oh my god, are you okay?! I wasn’t expecting anyone, so I just— oh god is that blood, please tell me it’s not blood—“

It _is_ blood. Mikleo can taste it in his tongue, vaguely metallic, but unlike the guy still sitting on his chest, Mikleo doesn’t freak out. “It’s okay,” he says, voice coming out as barely a wheeze. “I just bit my tongue.”

“Ambulance, ambulance, we need— where is my phone?!”

They’re surrounded by books. The ladder must have hit the other shelf, because Mikleo can see it leaning on it over the stranger’s shoulder, but also because around them there are fallen books everywhere, narrowly missing them. Mikleo looks at the mess, and a part of him feels the same way he did when he messed up something in Michael’s organization system as a kid: he knew there would be no punishment, but the guilt at making his uncle’s work even harder was always there.

Still, that’s when the stranger’s hand on the back of his head moves slightly, warm fingers brushing against Mikleo’s nape, and as a shiver runs down Mikleo’s body he looks up into the stranger’s eyes.

And— _oh._ He’s _lovely_. The sunlight coming down onto the hallway shines on the back of his head, giving his brown hair a gentle halo, but casting shadows over his gentle features, over the slack curve of his surprised lips, over those weird earrings of his. And still his green eyes shine bright as they look down on Mikleo, the worry in them making nothing to hide how beautiful and sweet they are.

It’s an unfair face. Mikleo finds himself warming up to this person just from their looks alone and that’s just.

Unfair.

So unfair.

“Okay, you're worrying me now,” the stranger says. His thumb is brushing against Mikleo’s hairline now, right at his nape, and that’s unfair too. “Are you okay?”

“I…I am,” Mikleo finally replies, pushing himself up slightly. The guy over him moves to give him space, but the hand supporting Mikleo’s head doesn’t leave. It stays until Mikleo is sitting on the floor, mouth now free of the taste of blood but vision still wobbly. He must have hit the floor rather harshly. “And you?”

“Oh, I’m fine! You saved me, after all!”

It takes all of Mikleo’s strength to push the blush threatening to warm up his cheeks out of his skin. “That— That could barely be called _saving_ —“

The stranger smiles blindly, and his hand finally slides away from Mikleo when he shrugs. “Well you cushioned my fall at least! But I’m still really sorry, I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here, and you scared me—“

“That should be my line,” Mikleo retorts, shaking his head. It’s a bad idea, but the spots in his vision vanish soon enough, and Mikleo can direct a narrowed look at the stranger pretty easily. “What were you doing in my library?”

“I— _your_ library?” The stranger replies, and he sounds almost— offended. “This isn’t _your_ library.”

Mikleo winces. “It might as well be now,” he looks around, at the mess of books and papers around them, and winces again. “Though I’m not looking forward to having to classify all of these…”

A hand on Mikleo’s chin makes him jump, but before he can react further the stranger is turning his head back towards him, pinning him down with the intensity of his eyes. Mikleo can’t look away, and while a part of him is getting fed up with this guy’s antics —a guy who sneaked into Michael’s home!—, another part of Mikleo is… at ease. There’s something familiar about this person.

But it’s hard to be at ease when the guy keeps _screaming_. “Ah! You’re him! You have to be!”

Mikleo frowns, utterly at a loss. “What are you—?”

“You’re the nephew! Um…Mikleo, right?”

Mikleo is so surprised at hearing his name that he can do nothing but nod.

“I knew it!! You have the same eyes… and the cool attitude!”

Mikleo doubts he’s sporting much of a cool attitude after everything that has just happened, but he will give his own ego that small praise. “And you still haven’t answered me. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

Under Mikleo’s hard gaze, the guy becomes sheepish. There’s a red mark on his forehead, probably the reason why Mikleo’s shoulder is throbbing, but the blush coating his cheeks is far more worthy of Mikleo’s attention. It gives the guy a boyish charm and— yeah that’s unfair too.

“Ah… Michael never told you about me?” He asks, rubbing the back of his head and sounding almost a bit sad.

Mikleo looks away. There’s not much space between the shelves, so even when he moves to rest his aching back against the shelves behind him, the guy still sits close enough to touch. “We… we didn’t talk much, my uncle and I.”

“That’s…” again that sheepish smile, but with a dash of sadness right at the corners this time. “That’s right, he used to say that,” he shakes his head then as if to shake away a thought, feather earrings clinking softly with the movement, before his luminous grin is back in place. Mikleo’s heart reacts to it with a shaky beat. “Anyway, I’m Sorey!” The guy says, extending a hand in the space between them for Mikleo to shake. “I leave nearby, in Elysia… Do you know of it?”

“Of course,” Mikleo nods, remembering the small, quiet village not so far away from Camlann as he shakes Sorey’s hand. “I’m Mikleo— though I guess you already knew that.”

“Yup! Michael used to talk about you sometimes— his university student nephew! He always sounded very proud when he spoke of you.”

Mikleo feels warmth at Sorey’s words, and a soft smile blooms on his lips. He’s about to say _‘it’s been a while since I was a student, though,’_ before he stops himself, remembering— Michael had no way to know Mikleo had graduated a long while ago, ahead of his time even, because he never even called to say so.

He pushes the thoughts away before the regret says, forcing himself to instead say: “That doesn’t explain what you’re doing here, though.”

“Oh, right!” He seems excited all of a sudden, and Mikleo lifts an eyebrow at him before Sorey adds: “I’m Michael’s apprentice!”

“…Apprentice? For what?”

“For his knowledge! I’ve always been interested in history and architecture… your uncle knows more than anyone else in all of Hyland! Rolance too, probably! I… I begged him to teach me everything he knew, and I was so excited when he said yes! I’ve been learning from him for the last… four years? I think?”

Mikleo nods. Leaning harder against the shelf, he bends one of his legs and curls his arms around it as he rests his head back. He can imagine his uncle’s excitement at such a petition as if he were seeing it right now. “That must have made him happy. He always complained about not having anyone to talk about his passion except—“

 _‘Except me,’_ he was going to say, but Mikleo stops himself before the word is out of his mouth.

Luckily, Sorey fills the silence for him. “I hope so! Michael was so smart… and so nice too! He never had trouble with me staying until late if that meant we would go over something or another.”

“…That does sound like Uncle Michael, yeah.”

“Ah,” Sorey says, and once again, he looks embarrassed. “Sorry. Here I am, talking as if I know him better than you do…”

“You probably do,” Mikleo replies with a shrug. “It’s alright.”

Sorey is about to say something uncomfortable, Mikleo can tell. He has known him for barely fifteen minutes, three of which Mikleo probably spent unconscious, but Sorey is easy to read. He seems like the kind of guy to wear his emotions at plain sight.

So Mikleo moves and grabs his hand, quickly interrupting him with a soft press of his fingers. “That looks bad. Does it hurt?”

Sorey’s knuckles are an angry red, the skin scraped so bad there are small beads of blood threatening to roll down his fingers. It’s the hand Sorey had used to support Mikleo’s head after the fall, but for the first time, Mikleo considers he might have done more than that.

Mikleo keeps his eyes on Sorey’s hand, so he misses his expression when Sorey says. “I—I’m okay, really…”

“This doesn’t look okay. Why don’t we go to the kitchen and we get you patched up? I think I can remember where the first aid kit is…”

This time, there is no chance for Mikleo to miss Sorey’s smile and again, that treacherous heart of his skips a beat at the warmth behind that smile. “How about I tell you where it is and you tell me more about yourself? I want to hear things about Michael’s mysterious nephew!”

Michael’s mysterious nephew… is that all Mikleo was in the end, even for Michael?

He doesn’t dwell on it. Instead he moves up, holding back a groan from the pain in his body and extending a hand down towards Sorey.

This time, when Sorey grabs his hand and Mikleo pulls him up, he manages to support Sorey’s weight just fine.

“Deal.”

* * *

Sorey locates the first aid kit quickly just as he promised, and Mikleo gets to work.

It’s been a while since Mikleo has had to deal with patching someone up —the last time might have even been here in Camlann too—, but he does his best. He feels bad when Sorey winces at the first dab of alcohol on his scrapped knuckles so he blows on them, pursing his lips apologetically in between one exhale and the next.

Sorey doesn’t relax even when Mikleo moves to grab the bandages. “S-so…” Sorey starts, voice coming out a bit rough around the edges. “What do you do in your day to day? Are you still studying?”

“Not really. I’m a trader,” Mikleo replies, and when Sorey makes a tiny, wondering noise, he adds without lifting his gaze from his work. “Stocks. Finances. That kind of thing.”

“Oh… wow! Where?”

“Pendrago.”

“Rolance—! So far away… is that why you don’t visit often?”

Mikleo jerks slightly at that, and his hands tighten the bandage around Sorey’s hand. Sorey makes another sound of protest. _It’s Sorey’s fault, really_ , Mikleo tells himself as he unwraps the last bit of the bandage carefully and wraps it up again, this time a bit looser. _Who is he to ask such questions?_

“And what do you do?” Mikleo asks back instead. “Aside from being Michael’s apprentice, I mean.”

“Ah—I’m still in uni!” Sorey replies just as Mikleo finishes with the bandages. They’re a little bit crooked, but they’ll do. “I’m a senior at Marlind U… history major!”

That’d make sense, Mikleo thought with a nod. Michael had worked with various universities over the years… Mikleo had never asked the specifics —too young to care about them when he actually spent time here —but he had always been aware of his uncle’s work being highly appreciated beyond the little haven that was Camlann.

By the way Sorey’s eyes shine as he talks, he clearly thinks that, as well.

“What field are you interested in? Modern history?”

“ _All of it_.”

There is so much passion in Sorey’s voice that if Mikleo had been drinking something, he would have choked on it. He glances up to meet Sorey’s gaze, and while he isn’t really surprised at the heat he finds there, Mikleo is surprised by the way it makes tingles go down his spine. He grips the edge of the table, just to have something to do with his hands.

Sorey’s bandaged hand is still in the middle of the table, fingers loose and pointing towards Mikleo.

“That’s… broad,” Mikleo says after a beat, clearing his throat. “Glenwood has a rich history.”

“And I want to know all of it!”

“Again… that’s too much. And difficult. Not even Glenwood’s Historical community can settle on one version of the Old Tales. And those are basically the pillars of every historical fact known today—“

“See, but that’s where it gets interesting!” Sorey exclaims as he leans forward, hands splayed over the countertop. “Why should only one version of the Tales be the correct one? How do we even _know_ that there is a correct one?”

Mikleo blinks, disbelieving, but he also leans forward onto his forearms. “Are you implying that all historical facts we know of today are _false_?”

“No, of course not,” Sorey replies with a big grin. “I’m _saying_ that we can’t agree on one version because all of them have bits of truth in them. It’s just up for researchers and analysts to try and find them out to weave a new Old Tale.”

“But—but most of them contradict each other! Maotelus’ origins, for example— some tales state he was born _human._ Others that his _seraphic soul_ evolved into something beyond comprehension, something godlike. Humans and seraphim are two different things.”

If possible, Sorey’s smile becomes even more luminous as he leans his chin on the hand Mikleo has just bandaged, looking at Mikleo with a mix of elation and smugness that sends Mikleo reeling. “But if humans could become seraphim—wouldn’t that make both stories true?”

“I—“ Mikleo stammers, because his heart has skipped a beat at the mere idea of that link between two of the most popular of the Old Tales. A link so simple, and yet so—: “Preposterous. That’s just preposterous…”

Sorey shrugs, unfazed. “Like I said—We only need proof! And I want to be the one to find it. To find all the links. It’s almost like the Ancient Riddles, you know… the answer is always there, somewhere, but so well hidden that you will only see it once—“

“—once it’s pointed out at you,” Mikleo finishes for him, smiling now as well as he remembers. “God, I hated those things. It made me so mad when I couldn’t find the answer on my own…”

“Really? I loved them! My favorite one was the one about Shepherd Rowan.”

“Ugh, not that one…” Mikleo groans as he rubs his palms over his face. “It took me three days before I cracked and asked uncle Michael for the answer.”

“Three days!? I cracked within the hour!” Sorey’s all warm laughter as he leans forward even more, his body almost out of the chair by that point. Mikleo can’t help but smile too—there is familiar enthusiasm in Sorey’s eyes, which catch the soft sunlight in the kitchen as he looks at Mikleo and only Mikleo. “That’s amazing, though… Did you really spend three days looking for the answer?”

“I went all over the library for clues before I started looking for the actual riddles,” his voice is soft as Mikleo thinks about the past, eyes casted to the side. He remembers uncle Michael lingering on the library’s threshold, holding the answer over Mikleo’s head like a metaphorical bone—and he remembers his own stubbornness, remembers wanting to make his uncle proud by discovering the answer himself.

Sorey too sounds soft now. “How old were you?”

“I don’t know… ten? Twelve, at most.”

There’s a beat, long enough for Mikleo to move from his remembering state to sending Sorey an inquiring gaze. But that’s exactly when Sorey bursts out laughing, his bandaged hand coming up to cover his mouth as he leans back and laughs, laughs more, laughs warmly. Mikleo can do nothing but stare as Sorey uses his fingers to rub the corners of his eyes—he can’t tell if there are actually tears there, but Sorey looks close enough to them, anyway.

“Incredible…” Sorey whispers, leaning forward once again only when he manages to calm down. “You really are Michael’s nephew, huh!”

Mikleo can’t help it—he rises an eyebrow, arms coming to cross over his chest. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Ah, nothing bad, I promise! You just… fire up in the same way he did. It’s funny to see how much you two look alike like that!”

“I—“ this is the second time Mikleo has stammered, and he’s very aware of the fact. He hates it. “I’m not _fired up—_ “

“You are,” Sorey replies, unforgiving despite the soft smile on his face. “Hey, if you like the Old Tales so much, I could lend you some books! I still have some from when I made research for my thesis—“

Suddenly, Mikleo rises from his seat. He tries to hide the emotions cursing through his chest by pushing everything back into the aid kit and closing the lid slowly, but Sorey’s eyes follow every movement curiously, in silence, and Mikleo feels observed under the heavy stare. He turns his back on Sorey and moves to the counter, even as he speaks. “Thank you, but I don’t have much time to read with work.”

“Mmm, that’s a pity. It’s clear history makes you happy.”

“Yeah, well,” Mikleo’s thumbs move, and the sound the clasp of the kit makes when he pushes it closed sounds like finality. “So does my job.”

The silence stretches between them after all, and it sounds incredibly hollow after Sorey’s boisterous laughter had filled the room.

“Anyway,” Mikleo says after a beat, because the silence is oppressing with the weight of everything that is missing in Camlann, with everything that will never come back. “Feel free to keep any book you want from the library. Since they’re important to you.”

Sorey’s frown is noticeable in his voice. “You’re not keeping any for yourself?”

The only thing in Mikleo’s voice is annoyance. “I already said I don’t have time,” he says, back still towards Sorey. “Nor space, for that matter.”

“But the library can hold them all just fine—wait, you’re not planning on refurnishing the library, are you!?”

He sounds so outraged, Mikleo feels his hands curl into fists. _Who does he think he is, making demands about Camlann, sounding so_ desperate _about it—?_

“I’m not,” Mikleo snaps—no, it’s not quite a snap. It’s the voice he uses at the office when he’s tired of everyone slacking off, of not _listening._ When he’s tired of not getting his way. It’s a voice that inspires fear. “But I can’t speak for the future owners of this place. They’ll probably won’t want a library full of history books.”

It doesn’t take long for the other shoe to drop. And Mikleo sees the moment it collides on Sorey’s face, the way his expression does something complicated, something Mikleo doesn’t want to name. “You’re selling Camlann?” Sorey finally asks.

And a part of Mikleo knows, Sorey sounds as horrified as Mikleo should be feeling at the mere idea of it.

“I am.”

It’s not the same as with Zaveid and Lailah. Mikleo doesn’t owe Sorey any explanations—he wants to sell Camlann, and so he will do. But still, Mikleo is expecting more or less the same reaction. There’s no denying Sorey loves this place; the feeling underlines everything he does, everything he says. So he expects anger, expects lashing out. Mikleo expects Sorey to throw at his face how he’s destroying Michael’s dream.

What he doesn’t expect however is for Sorey to curl in on himself, hands together over his lap as he looks down. And just like that all the sunlight in the room is gone, as if a rogue cloud has covered the clear sky to plunge the kitchen into darkness. “Oh,” is all Sorey says, never once looking up.

Mikleo feels something cold deep in his chest. Guilt. “But like I said, you’re free to take anything you want,” Mikleo adds, turning once again to pretend he needs to fiddle with the aid kit, trying to make things better. It’s like kicking an abandoned puppy who only seeks warmth. “I really don’t—“

“When?”

“—Huh?”

“When are you planning on selling it?” Sorey looks up then, and his eyes look set, even if his hands are still hanging loosely on his lap.

Mikleo wets his lips as he looks away. He’s sure about his decision, and yet—he can’t say it while looking Sorey in the eye, for some reason. “A real-state agent and her team will come next week to start the works in the house.”

Sorey blinks. “So you’re planning on fixing the whole house?” He asks, and before Mikleo can reply he’s jumping to his feet, hands on the table as he leans forward. The table and then some space still lay between them, but Mikleo feels trapped by the weight of Sorey’s stare. “Are you?”

“Well—yes…”

“Let me do it, then!”

The proposal falls like rocks on a landslide: unexpected and dangerous. Mikleo almost thinks he hasn’t heard correctly—because it’s madness, isn’t it?

“You can’t take care of the whole house yourself—“

“I’ve been doing it for some months now!” Sorey fights back; he really is set on this.

Mikleo shakes his head. “I’m sorry to say this,” he says and, with a swiping movement of his arm points at the kitchen floor still covered in newspapers and documents. “But you haven’t been doing a great job at that.”

There’s a fiery blush on Sorey’s cheeks now. “I-I can do it! I promise! I’ll fix the floors and give everything a new coat of paint— I’ll even fix the pool and the courts! Just—“

When it was clear Sorey wouldn’t add anything else, Mikleo sighed. He felt as if he was being pulled along by a string. “…Just what?”

“Just—don’t let strangers do this.”

“… _You’re_ a stranger to me.”

Sorey opens his mouth, then closes it. It’s like hundreds of things to say sprout out on his tongue but come to die on his lips; Mikleo can see him change his mind at the last second, never once setting on one thing.

Until he does: “Then let’s do it together. You’ll see I can take care of this, and I—I won’t be a stranger anymore.”

With a sigh, Mikleo pinches the bridge of his own nose between thumb and forefinger, eyes shut. “No.”

“But—!”

“I have a job to return to,” Mikleo says, finality coating his words, and he hates to admit his chest does something painful when Sorey’s face falls. It really is like kicking a puppy—and Mikleo doesn’t even like dogs, damn it. “I can’t stay around playing dollhouse with you. I shouldn’t even _be here_ now, but I am, and I need to see this done before Monday.”

The atmosphere is tense, like strings about to snap, nothing like it was while they chatted about history theories just ten minutes ago. Mikleo is used to this kind of atmosphere—thrives in it, most of the time. He’s good at his job because he keeps his cool even at the worst of times, when everything is going to hell and his company is suddenly at the brink of losing money they don’t even have.

But not here. Camlann has always been Mikleo’s weakness, his soft spot, no matter how deep he’s tried to bury it inside himself. Here, Zaveid’s words hurt like daggers, Lailah’s sad eyes burn like a forest fire.

Here, a stranger is able to make Mikleo feel like he’s betraying his uncle, again and again and again.

Well, not anymore.

“The offer still stands,” Mikleo says evenly, nodding at Sorey before separating himself from the counter and walking towards the door. “You’re free to take anything you want. Just—be done before my team comes here.”

There is no answer, so Mikleo makes his way out in silence, closing the door to Camlann at his back.

Forever.

* * *

The dreaded ringtone starts to sing just as Mikleo finishes packing, the only thing left for him to take care of the toiletries bag in the bathroom.

He sits down on the bed and picks up, watching the sun set in the horizon of Hyland. “Yes, Edna?”

“I have bad news and bad news. Which one do you want first?”

“That’s easy. The bad news, of course,” Mikleo replies solemnly. He likes the sunset of Ladylake: there’s always something happening in this city—a festival, a concert, a kid’s birthday party in a park. Today, the restaurant across the street seems to be in high spirits. Mikleo watches the tiny waiters and waitresses move around the tables flawlessly from his window, curtain pushed aside with his free hand.

“Velvet got Sylphystia.”

The curtain slips from Mikleo’s grasp.

“What!?”

“And Heldalf suspended you for two weeks.”

“ _WHAT!?”_

“I told you they were bad news,” Edna says, not quite defensively because Edna doesn’t get defensive, but her tone lets Mikleo know she is in no mood to repeat herself.

“But—how? We almost got it, our company’s been working on a deal for Sylphystia for _weeks!”_

“No, _you’ve_ been working on Sylphystia for weeks, and you left before finishing it, so it’s your fault. At least, that’s what Heldalf thinks.”

Ladylake has suddenly lost all of its charm. With the curtain now closed, Mikleo’s hotel room is dark, with only a little light filtering through the lower edge of the door. He had been working a lot for this, he had been working hard for almost a _year_. Had all of his hard work gone to waste?

Just because he had dared to come here?

“…Are you still there, Meebo?”

“—What am I supposed to do now, Edna?”

“I don’t know…” Edna says carefully, which almost made Mikleo panic because _since when was Edna careful around him._ “Enjoy it?”

“What do you mean _enjoy it_ , I’ve been suspended!”

“ _Or_ , you could look at this as vacation,” Edna reasons. There was a creak from her side, a familiar one; she was probably sitting at Mikleo’s desk, tiny feet on Mikleo’s mahogany desk. “Two full weeks of vacation, Meebo.”

Mikleo lets himself fall backwards on his bed, suitcase bouncing on the mattress. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not? You obviously need the downtime.”

“Because—we could still do something! We have a lot of information on Sylphystia, we can—we still could—“

“We both know Velvet isn’t going to let it go just like that, Meebo. It’s over.”

Mikleo hates it when Edna’s right. Velvet’s company is going to hold this over Mikleo’s head for _centuries_. “I can’t believe we lost.”

“Yeah.”

“What am I supposed to do for two weeks?”

Edna makes a non-committal noise over the line. “Live?”

“Edna…”

“No, don’t ‘Edna’ me. Your uncle just died, Meebo,” Edna says, and Mikleo feels the by now familiar pang of pain leave him almost breathless. “Take these two weeks to get to terms with it and move on.”

“…I rather work.”

“And I rather be called Lady Edna and have manservants who actually do serve me, unlike you. But we can’t all have what we want.” Another creak, and Mikleo can picture Edna twirl around on his desk chair. “Stay there. Buy me souvenirs. I’d say get some fun, but I can’t even start to imagine what fun is for you.”

“You know, you’re starting to remind me of Rose,” Mikleo says with a roll of his eyes.

Which Edna decides to ignore. “Live a little, Meebo. You’ll do a favor to us all.”

The line goes dead before Mikleo can reply. Mikleo guesses it’s fair; Edna has delivered the news to him, after all. She didn’t have to stay around for longer than that.

But she did. And in that strange way of hers that almost sounds like concern, Edna had asked Mikleo to enjoy his suspension, and rest.

Mikleo shouldn’t. If Edna was still at the office so late in the evening, it meant things weren’t going well back there.

He should jump on the next plane and present himself at the office, Heldalf be damned.

 _‘I really should,’_ Mikleo thinks, imagining himself getting up and pulling his suitcase along.

Instead, Mikleo closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> please give me the strength to write part 2 because it is lacking


End file.
